


Like a Kite

by clearinghouse



Series: The Family of Lord Lestrade [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Consensual, Guilt, Longing, M/M, Polygamy, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8551018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: Sherlock and John are acting strangely as of late. While all four of them are on a trip to the country together, Greg and Mycroft decide to work together to find out why.





	

Greg didn't normally like to be away from home for any reason, and that was doubly so in the morning, upon waking in an unfamiliar bed. It felt good to see John sleeping not too far away, though. Greg sat upright, rubbed his eye, and quietly made his way off the bed.

Usually, Greg was the last one out of bed, so it was rare that he had to be quiet when getting dressed. Still, he did his best. He stripped off his sleepwear and looked through the dressing room for something simple to wear. Tomorrow, he would have to be dressed for legal affairs, but not today. All he wanted to do today was spend his time with his family at the nearby farmstead, not far from this summer home.

It wasn't his own summer home. Rather, it belonged to one of his royal cousins. Still, since it was currently late autumn, it hadn't been hard for Greg to wrangle it out from under his relative.

As he was pulling on a pair of trousers, Greg heard John toss in bed. He turned around and met John's sleepy gaze. Seeing him brought Greg an innocent happiness. He knew that whatever John wanted, Greg could swiftly provide for him.

"Morning," Greg greeted with feeling.

John blinked, and then, seeming startled, respectfully averted his eyes from Greg.

Well. That didn't sit well with Greg. 

"Good morning," John replied nervously. "I am sorry. I must have overslept."

"Yeah?" Hoping to bring John peace, Greg sat on the edge of the bed and tucked in the blanket around him. "Well, you can sleep all you like."

"I can leave, um, while you dress."

"Oh." So it was his own half-naked appearance that was bothering John. But Greg himself didn’t mind being that way around John. "That's not a problem… Unless, you’d rather I get dressed?" Greg quickly made his way back to the dressing room and threw on the first shirt he found. "Here we go. Is that all better?"

John didn’t respond much at all.

Well. Greg didn't like that very much, either.

Normally, Greg prided himself on his acceptance of others. He should be able to accept John's semi-prudishness in much the same way. Yet John hadn't been this way with him at school, before discovering Greg's royal bloodline. It was with fondness that Greg remembered tumbling with John in the yard, ruining their clothes and doing a great job of it, too. 

At some point, without Greg realising it, John had marked a respectful distance between them. John no longer rolled around with him in the mud. John no longer played his old clarinet for him, though, oddly, Greg had seen John pack it along with the rest his clothes. John barely expressed himself in front of Greg at all. It was becoming more of a bother over time, Greg realised.

Greg made himself laugh. "Don't tell me, after all we've been through, that you can't stand the sight of me being shirtless."

"I'm sorry," John said apologetically. "Never mind. You can do as you wish."

Well. Greg liked that even less. However, he couldn't think of what to say without being bossy. 

So, he dressed himself as he normally would, while John fidgeted his way out of bed. 

Enough was enough. Maybe he should finally get some help on this.

\--

Mycroft combed Sherlock's hair to the side with a brush in one hand, and snipped the excess dark hair with a pair of scissors in the other. He watched as Sherlock observed the falling hair in the mirror. Sherlock had been remarkably cooperative so far. It was a rare event when Sherlock could sit still for this long.

"Leave the fringe," Sherlock said tersely.

"Of course," Mycroft assented, as if he had to be told.

It was an open secret that Mycroft enjoyed cutting Sherlock's hair. The activity was one that Mycroft had done for his younger brother ever since Sherlock had needed to have his hair cut. Mycroft supposed that, even though the circumstances of their class had changed, Sherlock found professional barbers too unfamiliar to tolerate, and therefore still suffered Mycroft to complete the task.

This time more than other times, Mycroft was especially glad to be with Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't been seeking Mycroft's company very much lately, and Mycroft missed sharing small moments with his younger brother like this. It was also a nice way to reassure himself that Sherlock wasn't forgetting about him, and that he could still share some intimacy with Sherlock. Granted, they were still brothers, and would therefore never be intimate in the same way he was intimate with Greg, or even with John. Mycroft certainly never bothered to consider otherwise. Rather, Mycroft only wanted to be near Sherlock, to share in his life, and perhaps to also do a mundane task for him from time to time.

"You are good to John."

"Hm?" Mycroft hummed.

Sherlock looked away from the mirror. "You are good for John," he said, with a resolute pout on his face. "When you do that thing that you do for him. You know what I mean."

His brother’s careful wording was always a delight to listen to. Mycroft gave a small bow. "It is gratifying to hear you say so."

"He seems to… like it," Sherlock added quietly.

Mycroft smiled. In all the ways that Mycroft could have served Sherlock in his capacity as older brother, pleasing John was not one that Mycroft would have predicted. Nonetheless, he would do anything for Sherlock, and he was quite equal to this particular function.

Sherlock bit his lip. "How do you do it?"

Mycroft paused. "Explain."

"Whatever it is you do that John likes so much. What is your trick?"

That prompted a small chuckle from Mycroft. "Ah. Perhaps I am such an excellent conversationalist." Sherlock's lack of response to this made Mycroft change his tone, however. "I take it you mean what I do to gratify him physically. That is almost entirely practice, as you yourself have been witness to."

"Almost entirely?" Sherlock managed to ask, though he was blushing.

This would be difficult to word delicately enough for his brother’s liking, but Mycroft made the attempt. "That is to say, a certain natural disposition that I possess is not without its advantages in such situations. But why do you ask?"

"No, there must be something more. There’s some secret to it," Sherlock insisted, more to himself than to Mycroft.

Mycroft wasn't sure if he should be flattered or not. "Not at all. In this as in all arts, practice makes perfect. Take playing your violin, for example. Or better yet, cutting hair. The first time I cut your hair, it was a disaster."

Sherlock sighed. "That doesn't sound very encouraging."

"Perhaps 'disaster' is too strong of word," Mycroft corrected himself. "That would imply that I regret the experience. I do not. The outcome of it isn't what I remember best. What I remember is enjoying the time I spent with you. The rest is trivia."

Much to Mycroft's mild surprise, Sherlock didn't remark that Mycroft was being too soppy. Though he did say, "I thought we were talking about John," in a soft voice.

"We are. If John likes my company, and I appreciate his, then no trick is needed. We simply do what we both like, is that not so? Time is well spent, regardless, as long as it is spent by me and him together… or you and him, together…" Mycroft smiled. "Or…" He snipped the final line of hair. "… you and me, as the case may be." 

The tools were set aside, and Mycroft removed the towel that was around Sherlock's neck. He straightened Sherlock's chair so that he could better see Sherlock in their combined reflection. 

That was when he observed that, suddenly, Sherlock wasn't looking back at all.

Sherlock's shoulders hunched up, and he crossed his arms. "Never mind. It's not really my area anyway. Hair looks good. Thanks."

Feeling concerned, but not wishing to offend, Mycroft didn't press Sherlock for more. "You're welcome." Maybe he had said the wrong thing. Gregory would know, Mycroft decided. Perhaps later, his forthright husband would be able to assist him in this matter.

\--

Riding horses was not Greg's favourite way to expend energy. He preferred less monotonous engagements, such as playing ball, or wrestling. Quite frankly, he was not so adept at the activity either. Yet everyone else seemed to enjoy it a good deal, even John. That was why Greg was smiling now.

It turned out that John could ride as well as Sherlock could. The two of them were trotting great distances around Greg and Mycroft, who were both keener on enjoying the view than on enjoying the bumps in the road. Plus, John was almost freely enjoying himself at Sherlock's side. That was good.

Greg had explained to John and Sherlock that there was a social event held by one of his prestigious relatives, which Greg had to attend with at least one husband. Greg had offered to leave on the trip alone with Mycroft, but Sherlock was adamant that he would sacrifice himself for Greg's sake and accompany him also on his journey into the underworld. Sherlock immediately demanded that, in return for this sacrifice, Greg would take them to ride horses out in the wilderness while they were out of town. 

Once Greg had smirked with amusement and agreed that it would be a much nicer trip with the additional company, John appeared to assume that he must also go. Something about it not being proper to be alone in the house. Well, Greg mused, at least John had said 'the' house, and not 'your' house. 

But before that, Greg had told Mycroft the real reason why he had needed to leave the city for a couple of days. He wanted to legally change his will. Such a change was easiest to make in person, especially when it involved adding someone unexpected to the will. The less of a paper trail this transaction left behind, the better. 

Mycroft said from beside him, "Gregory."

Greg wondered at that name for a split second. It was not a name that anyone else used on him. In many ways, Mycroft was funny like that. Simultaneously affectionate and strange. "Yeah?"

Mycroft nodded to the landscape. "This is a beautiful place."

"Yeah." It wasn't the picturesque sort of beauty that Greg saw in paintings, and the smell of animals was not so beautiful either, but the view was nice. The sense of open space appealed to Greg, and the fresh air had a pleasant breeze, which carried some colourful children’s kites in the distance.

Even though there were others on the farm, Greg fancied that the four of them had the whole world to themselves.

Before Mycroft could say another word, Sherlock came galloping close around them, with John in tow. He told them that there was a promising cache of weeds further ahead, which needed investigating, and hence there would be a split in the party.

"John, are you coming with me?" Like many of Sherlock's requests, the boldness of the words belied their hidden softness. 

"Yes, absolutely," John said humbly. He hesitated, and then asked, "Lestrade, Mycroft, is that all right?"

Greg frowned.

"Of course. We will see you on the way back," Mycroft agreed kindly. "Take care."

Sherlock humphed, though he did mutter that he would do so. Then he and John trotted away, making a great image of a heroic duo from Greg's perspective.

"Mycroft," Greg began, after the other two were well beyond them.

"Gregory," Mycroft also began, at the same moment. He simpered, an expression of such great adorableness that it brought Greg back to good memories. "Ah, my apologies."

Greg rubbed the back of his neck and smiled. "No, you first, sweetheart."

Infatuation passed hotly over Mycroft's features. "Yes." He cleared his throat.

A storm of devotion whirled inside Greg's chest at the sight. He wore his feelings on the surface, too. Mycroft was such a kind man. Mycroft could do anything.

Mycroft sat up even straighter on his horse. "If it would not be inconvenient, might I share a little problem with you?"

That got Greg's attention. "Really? You want my help?" He bounced a bit on his horse. "Uh, sure. If I can help with anything… or if you just want to talk about it…"

Mycroft gave his own small smile. "Thank you, Gregory. It concerns Sherlock."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Indeed? I don't suppose he has spoken to you as of yet?"

"No, I don't believe so. What's this about?"

Mycroft took a deep breath. "He thanked me for what I've done for John. He wished to know how I do it so well."

"Uh, do what for him, exactly? As in…?"

"Carnal embrace," Mycroft admitted as delicately as possible.

"Ah, uh, 'kay." But still, Greg couldn't quite process that they were talking about this. "Between you and John?"

Mycroft nodded.

Greg shook his head. "I don't get it, still."

"I believe Sherlock is feeling sexually inadequate and was seeking advice."

Greg coughed. "Oh. Is that all?"

Mycroft laughed lightly at Greg's reaction.

That was a fantastic sound. It felt strange to be discussing these topics out on a farmstead like this—or even at all—but Mycroft's laughter made it all right.

"I tried to tell him that he needn't worry," Mycroft said. "I indicated that he is perfectly fine as he is. He wasn't interested in consolation. I may have… chosen the wrong words."

"No way, you could never do that," Greg retorted. "You can’t help it if Sherlock envies you. It’s understandable."

Mycroft knitted his brow in confusion. "Envies me?"

That gave Greg pause. "Isn't that what you were saying? That Sherlock envies how well you, uh, get on with John?" Sherlock looked up to Mycroft with such esteem that it didn't surprise Greg at all to learn that Sherlock was feeling insufficient.

Mycroft stopped his horse, as did Greg. "But he was seeking advice from me," Mycroft repeated. “I’m here to help him.”

Greg laid a comforting hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "I'm pretty sure Sherlock is comparing himself to you, and that's why he's acting oddly around you."

"Why would that be? It's not a competition," Mycroft contested.

"Does Sherlock know that?"

Mycroft pondered the point briefly, unable to answer. At last, he surrendered to the morose idea. "I see. I… hadn't meant to make things difficult for him. I had wanted to serve Sherlock in this way… But, no, one moment." Mycroft held Greg's shoulder in return. "I cannot possibly be a match for Sherlock in John’s eyes. I am not the one whom John wants and thinks of. I could never take John away from him.” 

"Hey, don't worry about this," Greg reassured. Moving away to climb down his horse, he helped Mycroft down from his own steed, so that he could hold Mycroft close. "There's nothing to feel bad about. You've been a great older brother, believe me. Sherlock's just a bit confused. I'll talk with him about it."

"Thank you, but what will you say?"

"Uh, well." Greg thought hard for a few seconds. "Oh! It's simple. I’ll tell him how, uh, adequate he’s been for me. And not just in this particular way that he’s worried about. I'll get it through his thick head that he's perfect to me, and if he’s perfect to me, then he’s got to be perfect to John, too. That ought to help, right?"

Mycroft cracked a smirk. "Perhaps."

"And, besides. If that's no good, then, maybe he really is looking for some simple advice. Some know-how. I'm sure he doesn't know the mechanics of some things. I never thought he was interested in learning any of that before now, you know, but maybe things are different now, with John in the picture. So. Maybe. I can show him how some of the more complicated things are done? Walk him through it, a bit?" Greg half-apologised for his words with a well-what-can-you-do smirk. "What do you think? Would that go over well?"

Mycroft gazed at his husband in amazement, then swallowed aloud. "Of course. You are too kind, Gregory. Thank you kindly."

Greg soaked in the praise like a sponge. He still had no idea if Sherlock actually wanted any guidance like that, though. It may prove that a few words of reassurance would be enough to solve the problem.

"You appear to have expected these feelings from Sherlock," Mycroft noted.

Greg blinked. "Oh, well, you got me there. I've kind of been waiting for it. I had heard misplaced envy is a common problem in, you know, marriages like this."

"Marriages with fraternal polygamy?"

"Yeah, that." Greg elbowed Mycroft playfully. "But it sounds better when you say the words."

Mycroft blushed, and waved Greg on. "Ah, I'm so sorry, but look, I'm monopolising the conversation, aren’t I? What was it that you desired to discuss with me a moment ago?"

"Oh." At first, Greg could hardly remember. Then he recalled John's shyness in the bedroom that morning. "It's just something going on with me and John, but it's nothing new."

"Yes? Tell me all that is on your mind."

Grateful, Greg took Mycroft's arm in his own, and walked him very slowly off to a patch of flowers nearby. "All right, here it goes. John is formal around me. Now, I'm not a sort for formal stuff, especially not with you and Sherlock and John. But I can't exactly go around ordering John to loosen up, can I? I was hoping he'd get the hang of things, but… that hasn't happened yet. I know he hasn't been with us all that long, but he's seen everything there is to see."

A moment of silence passed between them. Greg stopped with Mycroft in front of a particularly lively patch of flowers that he thought Mycroft might like.

Greg shrugged. "Sometimes I think, am I missing something about John, something that would make him feel more at home with us? But he doesn't call you or Sherlock by ‘Lestrade.’ So, I don't know."

"Naturally, John thinks very highly of you," Mycroft suggested. "Though one might suppose that difficulties arise because you, unlike Sherlock and I, are also his employer."

"Really?" Greg protested. "But I'm not his employer. Not a bit. I'm his… his…" No suitable word presented itself. He didn’t want to say that he was John’s sponsor. He wanted to be more than that to John.

Patiently, Mycroft took Greg's hand, and led him into the patch of flowers. Once there, Mycroft gave Greg a private kiss. "Do you still pay him?" Mycroft asked.

There was a guilty flip in Greg's stomach. "Yes, but shouldn't I? He still writes. I don't want him to stop that. Shouldn't I pay him, if he's still writing?"

But Mycroft made everything right again by caressing Greg's cheek. "Perhaps," Mycroft said. "Or, perhaps our new circumstances with John necessitate a change. In fact, allow me to see to it, dear." Mycroft bowed his head to effect earnestness. "I will ensure that John continues his writing but no longer remains in a subordinate position to you."

Greg lit up with gratitude. If Mycroft had some magical solution of his own, then that was all that Greg needed to hear. "Then, he'll act normally around me? Like in the good old days?"

Mycroft gripped Greg's hands tightly. "Absolutely."

Greg put on his best smile for his husband. "Thanks. You're the best."

"I do try to be of use," Mycroft said. Then his eyes darkened and his voice grew rich. "Now, if you would be so kind as to explain to me in detail… what exactly you were planning to show Sherlock?"

Of course, Greg hadn’t any such plan yet. Yet the look on Mycroft’s face encouraged him to give the planning phase a start. As he considered it in seriousness, a world of remarkably interesting possibilities opened before him. There were, after all, so many interesting things that Mycroft and Lestrade could demonstrate to their impressionable counterparts. So, with Mycroft, he fantasised a little.

\--

Mycroft appreciated the novelty of riding a horse for fun. It was a luxury that he had never pictured himself partaking in. He certainly never thought it would be this pleasant. Although, it was hard to say if he would have enjoyed it as much without his husband smiling by his side.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Gregory asked him.

Mycroft started. “Hm?”

“You were looking at me?”

“Oh.” Mycroft straightened himself. “Yes, I suppose I was...”

“Kiss, kiss, kiss,” Sherlock chanted sarcastically.

John giggled a little. 

That made Sherlock happy, though he pretended to hide his smirk as if trying to seem tough. He often playacted posturing like that in front of John.

Mycroft found himself wondering, was John laughing because he was amused? Or was it to make Sherlock smirk like that? He shook his head at himself. He was thinking too much, as always.

Some time had passed since his private talk with Gregory, and the four had regrouped. The weeds had been a disappointment, so Sherlock and John had abandoned their quest and the four were walking the path once again. Sherlock had gladly taken it upon himself to lead the troupe, as expected. To where, exactly, even Mycroft didn’t know. Perhaps nowhere.

“It’s kind of hard to kiss from here,” Gregory pointed out to Sherlock, though he needn’t have. 

Sherlock answered dryly, “You’ll find a way.” 

Mycroft observed that John was watching where Sherlock pointed his gaze, even though John had none of Sherlock’s expertise for discerning elements of the environment. He must be fascinated by Sherlock’s habit of investigating and identifying every little thing that met his eye. Sherlock was quite unlike Mycroft, in that respect. Mycroft was too much in his own head; Sherlock was too much everywhere.

Gregory asked, “Hey, Sherlock, can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“What?”

Mycroft could see the rolling of Sherlock’s eyes in his mind. His brother slowed down his horse to trot beside Gregory, in order to give him a meaningful face.

“Oh,” Gregory said belatedly. “I mean, you know…”

“Never mind,” Sherlock huffed. “What is it?”

Greg began again, his vigour unchecked. “You know that I appreciate you, right?”

A blank stare was his only response.

“All right, let me put it another way.” Gregory rubbed at the light stubble of his face. “I just wanted to say, I really like spending time with you, and you don’t need to change. Okay?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What has Mycroft been telling you?”

Delighted by his husband’s initiative, Mycroft feigned surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, Sherlock. Nothing more than the normal boring stuff that normal boring spouses talk about, I mean.” Gregory reached over from atop his horse to give Sherlock a quick pat on the arm. “Hey, Mycroft, John, I need to say a thing or two to Sherlock really quick. We’ll meet back up in a minute.”

“Whatever you want to say, you can say here and now,” Sherlock said.

Gregory grinned, and deliberately raised his voice a notch. “Sure! Actually, I wanted to talk about you and me in bed. It’s important to me to know one of my husbands is getting what he needs, and I’m worried that I’m not satisfying you properly.”

“Fine!” Sherlock ducked his head in embarrassment. “Fine, fine. I’ll go.”

Red in the face, John bit his lip and ducked also. 

Gregory beamed. Thus, the two of them veered off from the pack.

Not to be outdone, Mycroft instantly took Sherlock’s vacated position beside John once the other two were away. “And how are you feeling on this fine day, John?”

John glanced up at Mycroft. “Um, good.”

“You seem to take well to the horses.”

John nodded, shyly, though not too shyly.

Mycroft was happy about that. “By the way, I haven’t had the chance to ask recently. How is your latest story coming along?”

“Very well,” John said. “But, oh, um… I haven’t worked on it recently…”

“Indeed not?” Mycroft said nonchalantly.

“Should I be writing…?”

“Not necessarily. Although, I do enjoy your storytelling.”

“Oh, um, thank you.”

“Is there a particular reason why you haven’t written recently? Writer’s block, perhaps?”

“I, um… I wasn’t sure if I should.”

Mycroft hummed with interest.

John swallowed thickly. “Well… I haven’t because, um, you see, Lestrade pays for me writing… But I don’t really… That is, no one has asked me for rent…” He paused carefully.

Mycroft understood that the statement was really a question, but he wanted to hear more. John was telling him so much more than he normally did. “Naturally,” was all Mycroft said. “And?”

“And.” John paused a second time, but Mycroft said nothing, so he continued. “And, I’m very grateful for everything. All three of you are so kind to me. It’s all so much, and… but this will sound silly…” He gave a small exhale. “I don’t seem to need income, so, I’d rather write for free.”

Mycroft had to resist expressing the extreme reaction that he felt. After all, it apparently turned out that he and John were after the same goal.

“Writing is something I can do for everyone. It’s, um, a small thing, but, I like to write, and I’m good at it…”

“I believe I understand,” Mycroft said slowly. “You want to give something back to the man who has been so generous to you.”

John bowed his head. “Yes, but, um… you have all been generous to me…”

“Ah, but are we not family now?” Mycroft said. This was a good a time as any to give it his best attempt to make things right between John and Greg. “You are quite in the right. Gregory needn’t pay you a commission for your work. You are, after all, Sherlock’s de facto spouse. It would make more sense if you had an arrangement similar to his. I believe he receives a quarterly income from the estate. Yes, that will do for you as well, don’t you agree?” 

“Oh.” John blanched. “Oh, that’s, um, that’s very...”

“Gregory will be delighted,” Mycroft pressed, “to know that you will feel more at home this way. He sometimes worries that you still consider yourself more a guest than a resident, you see. He, Sherlock, we all want you to be as perfectly comfortable as you can be…” With either a bolt of courage, or a lapse in concentration, Mycroft touched his palm to John’s cheek, and let his fingers caress tenderly, just below John’s eye. John reminded him so much of Sherlock sometimes.

A bit of air escaped John, and he flinched on his horse. He neither leaned into the touch, nor away from it. “Um, thank you.”

Only then did Mycroft fully realise what he had done. “Ah.” He retracted his hand. “My apologies.” That wasn’t the sort of thing he should be doing while trying to ease John into being more comfortable around Lestrade. “Is that sort of display of affection not to your liking?”

Quickly, John scanned around them, presumably to ensure that they were alone. Then, shyly, John looked at the neck of his horse. “Um… It’s okay…”

It seemed that there was some piece of this puzzle that Mycroft was still missing. “What would you like better?” 

Much to Mycroft’s private dismay, John did his best to smile politely. “I’m… good.”

Mycroft wanted to stroke John’s face again. He wanted to do something, anything, to convince John that it was all right for him to be comfortable, to be intimate. He knew only too well how dearly Gregory wanted to be close to John. Mycroft could sympathise. John was patient, and kind. They had made some progress together already, that was true, but there was still so much more to be done.

“Lestrade.”

Mycroft blinked. “Hm?”

“Lestrade,” John said a little more loudly. “This morning… I woke up late, he was still in bed. He was, um, changing… I, well…” He rubbed his own arm. “Sherlock wasn’t there… Lestrade said I could stay, but… I, um…”

A burst of joy filled Mycroft, to know that John trusted him this much. “Yes? How did you feel?”

John stared at Mycroft with wide eyes for a second, then turned back to the horse the next. His eyes crinkled, and then closed. He covered them with his hands, and did his best to stay still. “Grateful,” he managed to say, after he steadied himself. He brought down his hands so that he could fake a pleasant disposition for Mycroft’s benefit. “I’m… just so grateful, to be here,” he lied.

“Ah.” The burst of joy had ripped itself painfully apart. 

Mycroft wanted nothing more than to pull John off the horse, and kiss him, or at least hug him, and convince John that he could trust Mycroft with whatever it was that was troubling him. 

But the distance was still too great.

\--

“Sorry about pulling you away like this,” Greg said kindly.

“It’s… fine.” Sherlock reared his head once to look back at his brother and his beloved. Then, he paid all attention to Greg. “You and Mycroft are planning something.”

“Yeah, guilty as charged,” Greg admitted. “Tell you what, I’ll make it easy for you and get to the point. To be honest, Mycroft was worried that you’ve been feeling inadequate.”

“Inadequate for what?”

Greg tried not to chuckle. “As in…” He immediately gave up on that route, and tried a different tactic. “So, Mycroft and I are a bit ahead of you and John in some ways, right?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Yes…?”

“Well.” Greg gestured to himself to help himself work through the words. “We’ve got some experience with things that you might not be so sure about. So, it would make sense if Mycroft seems like…” Greg shrugged. “A tough act to follow.”

Finally, Sherlock was beginning to understand. “… Oh.”

“But hey! I can tell you that you have nothing to worry about. You’re a lot of fun. No, I mean, more than that.” Greg groaned. “Damn. This is harder than I thought it would be.”

In a flash, Sherlock perked up. “Do you know Mycroft’s secret?”

“What?”

“His trick. What is his trick?”

Once again, Greg was totally lost about what Sherlock was talking about.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “His trick. I’m talking about his trick. Whatever it is he does when he flirts and such. It isn’t simply a natural disposition. It can’t be intuition and practice alone. There is something more to his...” Sherlock struggled with the words. “… attractiveness. Intimateness.”

“Really? Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but I think you’re asking the wrong guy about that.”

“Hm, right.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “You couldn’t figure Mycroft out, so you married him instead. You fell for his trick—” Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he cut himself off, suddenly ashamed.

Suddenly, Greg didn’t feel so cheerful.

“I am sorry,” Sherlock murmured. “That was… wrong. I’m sorry, Greg. I didn’t mean to say that that. I’m just… confused.”

Greg couldn’t help but be frowning now, though he did his best to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt and listen, anyway.

Sherlock hurried to rectify his mistake. “You and Mycroft are in love. That’s good. Great. No tricks involved at all.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem,” Greg said. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”

Sherlock sighed. “It’s Mycroft. With John, for example, he is… intimate, and… no. Never mind. I can’t say it.”

“It’s all right, Sherlock, if you envy Mycroft a little.”

“No. Yes, but that’s not it! Ah, this is too complicated!” Sherlock crossed his arms. His behaviour must have been contagious, because his steed became aloof and sombre as well. He muttered to himself. “Maybe that is it. Maybe I am envious…”

Greg scratched the back of his neck. This was a bit of a sticky spot to be in. “Not to be presuming too much here, but, if it would help… If you envy Mycroft, I could show you how to do the trickier things he does. With John.” Still, Greg wasn’t sure he liked how that sounded. He tried on a warm, loving smile for Sherlock. “I wouldn’t say there’s a trick to it, exactly, but no one’s born knowing all about anatomy, right?” Out of consideration for Sherlock, he lowered the volume of his voice. “I could walk you through some of the more difficult moves, if that’s what you’d like?”

Cold hesitation and nervousness gripped Sherlock. “That’s… not it.” 

That answer made no sense. Greg frowned. “Then, what am I missing? You mean to say, is there something else bothering you?” He could hardly imagine that he and Mycroft had been mistaken about the source of Sherlock’s troubles.

“I can’t say it now,” Sherlock said quickly. He avoided Greg’s gaze. “Later. I need time to think.” And with that, he started trotting back to the other two, effectively ending their conversation.

That hadn’t gone very well at all, Greg reflected with a sag of his shoulders.

When they regrouped, Greg was baffled to see that Mycroft and John were simply idling on their horses, saying nothing. Like Sherlock, John was steadfastly avoiding eye contact. 

Mycroft was apparently at as much a loss as Greg was. Greg exchanged looks with him, and each tried to silently figure out what had happened with the other’s attempt. Neither had much success.

The ride back was much too quiet.

\--

Once the four returned back to the summer house, Sherlock was the first to enter. He clearly meant to leave their side immediately, without even a word to John.

That was too disconcerting for Mycroft to accept. It gave him the courage to hurry in immediately behind Sherlock, and to hold him back.

“Brother dear,” Mycroft said, with force.

Sherlock stopped. Like John, he was completely unmoving once Mycroft touched him.

Mycroft wondered sadly, was there something he was doing incorrectly, to make both his dear Sherlock and John react that way? He let Sherlock go.

Still, Sherlock remained. The stubborn young man turned back to face Mycroft. His face was full of doubt and uncertainty. He was ashamed to look Mycroft in the eye.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I am worried about you.”

“You always are,” Sherlock said, but the weak attempt at an old joke fell flat.

“Whatever is the matter?”

It was hard to watch the way Sherlock made an effort to compose himself in front of Mycroft. “I… can’t tell you. But it’s nothing important. I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything if you don’t want to. Only… please, tell me enough. I have to know that you are all right.”

Sherlock held his arm. “Don’t you already know?” He looked down. “I am envious.” 

Mycroft was tempted to let himself feel relief to hear Sherlock admit as much. “And that is perfectly all right, I promise.”

“No, no. It’s worse than you think!” Sherlock shook his head desperately. “Brother…”

A sour chord was struck in Mycroft’s heart. “Sherlock?”

A hard misery fell upon Sherlock. He hugged himself, and that was when Mycroft realised why Sherlock had been trying to leave them so quickly. Sherlock was barely keeping himself together. “Mycroft,” he whispered, “I am so sorry….”

The world fell away from around them. In a flash, Mycroft stopped noticing everything but how much Sherlock needed him. “Whatever it is, I don’t care.” Without a second thought, Mycroft took Sherlock into his arms, and held him, like he used to when Sherlock was little.

Sherlock tried, with a pathetic energy, to move away. “No, no, you can’t…”

“Why not?” Mycroft murmured.

There was nothing more Sherlock could do, then. His head fell against Mycroft’s neck, and he held onto Mycroft as tightly as he could. “I’m sorry,” was all he had to say.

And Mycroft decided that he didn’t need any more explanation than that. He wouldn’t demand anything else right now. This was enough. He was so happy to hold Sherlock like this. It felt like he hadn’t been this close to him in a while. “Gregory and I love you,” Mycroft said.

There was a strange sound. It took Mycroft a moment to realise that Sherlock was laughing. 

“What is so funny?”

“Even after all this time,” Sherlock huffed, “you still can’t call him Greg.” Sherlock half-giggled, half-sobbed. “I suppose… you still think of him as the nobleman, don’t you?”

Mycroft stiffened. What? Sherlock must be mistaken. That couldn’t be true.

“Sherlock?” John said from the door, meekly.

Mycroft had to think fast. Gregory was a noble, sure, and always deserved the highest respect, yes, but… but… Mycroft loved him more deeply than that.

“Everything all right?” Gregory came in with John. 

Suddenly, when he saw his husband wearing such compassion and an eagerness to help, Mycroft opened his eyes and smiled. Everything was finally becoming clear.

Sherlock hugged Mycroft more securely, and Mycroft could feel his brother shake a little. “I… uh…”

“Sh.” Mycroft rubbed Sherlock’s back comfortingly, keeping him close. “Sherlock, thank you. Everything will be all right now. Here, rest.” Mycroft helped Sherlock to sit down.

Curious and confused, Sherlock only watched him.

“Gregory.” Mycroft said. “Greg,” he corrected himself, with effort, and was surprised by the amount of effort it took. Maybe he had himself convinced that ‘Gregory’ was a pet name. He may have even convinced his own husband, too. But Sherlock, and presumably John as well, had seen through him. It wasn’t really Greg’s name. It was another title.

Greg paused. “Huh?”

Up until now, Mycroft reflected, he had been a poor role model. How could John ever feel comfortable treating Greg less like a boss and more like an equal, when Mycroft had never learned to do as much?

His husband asked kindly, “What’s going on?”

Mycroft was increasingly aware of something else startling, too; he was holding himself straight in Greg’s presence. He was monitoring how well he spoke. Every moment that Greg was near, Mycroft was unawarely trying to make himself more perfect for him, more proper. 

But it was only because Greg was such a superior man, better than royalty. And didn’t Greg want a spouse to match? Mycroft wanted to be what Greg wanted. Or maybe he was thinking too much like John; that he had so little to give and was so subordinate, that he might as well give what little he had. 

But John had been wrong about that. John was not subordinate. He had so much love to give. So, then, was Mycroft wrong as well? He couldn’t help but laugh at himself. Would it be so hard, he reflected, to practice what he preached?

John was completely taken off guard. Greg cracked a smirk. “Mycroft?”

“Ha, but I think too much.” Mycroft moved to hold Greg by the hands, and was once again amazed by how unfamiliar the assertiveness was. Greg was his husband. Surely, Mycroft should feel free to show him his affection. So, nothing should keep him from it. “Honey, would you like a kiss?”

A strange hope twinkled behind Greg’s eyes. “Sure?”

With that, Mycroft kissed him, with more freeness than he had ever done before.

For John, for Sherlock, and for Greg, Mycroft could be brave enough to do exactly what he felt like doing. Maybe then John would see that he could be free with Greg, too. Maybe Sherlock would see that there was nothing he could do or say that would make Mycroft think any less of him.

\--

Greg’s heart was beating so fast, it was about to get away from him.

Mycroft’s hands were so warm on his. The kiss was intimate, disarmingly so. It thrilled Greg to think that he could lose himself in it. Where had this come from?

“Greg,” Mycroft breathed, after he’d pulled back only a few inches. “Sherlock’s feeling a little down right now. I told him he doesn’t have to tell us what’s on his mind. And John, I don’t think he has to talk to us, either, if he’s not feeling up to it.” He glanced lasciviously down Greg’s torso, and dipped a finger under the top his shirt, to stroke his clavicle flirtatiously. “On the other hand, there’s something simple that we can do to raise their spirits.”

Greg’s mind was a puddle. “Eh?”

For a split second, Greg almost thought he saw Mycroft’s confidence waver. Though, he must have not seen right, because in that same instant, Mycroft held the side of his chest with a softness that made Greg melt. “Would you like,” Mycroft purred, “to sit down…” Greg was gently pushed to sit down beside Sherlock, while Mycroft leaned closely over him. “… and let me give you what I think you’d like, right here?”

Only a jolt of lightning crossing in front of Greg’s astonished, deeply reddened face could have properly communicated his feelings in that moment. “Uh...” He looked to Sherlock, as if Sherlock would have a hint as to what was happening, which he apparently did not at all. “Um...” He turned to John next, but already knew that would be a lost effort. Indeed, John was as speechless and flushed as he was. “Well, sure, but…” Greg finally came back to Mycroft. “You want to? … Now?” 

Incredibly, Mycroft faltered, for real this time. “Not now?”

That was absolutely not the kind of response Greg meant to provoke. “Ah, now is good,” he said as cheerfully as he could. “I, just, uh…” He swallowed.

Much to Greg’s relief, Mycroft regained his composure. “Ah, I see. Wonderful. Now, then, I have a word to say to John.” Swiftly, he moved to John, to take him by the hand and pull him closer to the rest of them. 

As always, John let himself be pulled into Mycroft’s sway. “Um… yes?”

Smiling, Mycroft played with John’s hair. He paused to consider it. “No fringe,” he said idly to himself.

Greg just barely caught sight of Sherlock jumping in his seat. He crossed his arms and his legs defiantly, yet blushed also. 

Like Greg, John didn’t quite understand. Nonetheless, he was embarrassed and flattered by the attention. Greg wondered if John felt at all awkward for being shorter than Mycroft, or if it changed anything at all.

“John, you said earlier, that you were grateful, yes?” Mycroft brushed some of John’s hair aside from above his ear, and tenderly kissed him there.

John shivered a little. “Um…”

“Greg adores you, John, more than you could know,” Mycroft whispered. “And Sherlock, he loves you.” He drew one hand down along John’s arm. “And I am grateful for that. For you.” His other hand came up behind John’s back. “May I?”

Poor John could barely face Mycroft at all. “Uh…”

“You needn’t speak, if you don’t wish it,” Mycroft said. “A nod will do.” Greg could perceive that Mycroft’s fingers were only against the fabric of John’s clothes, waiting precariously for their advance. “If you would hold onto me?”

Not sure what to expect, John eventually nodded, and very lightly gripped Mycroft’s shoulders.

“I asked you earlier,” Mycroft continued, “what would you like better?” He bent his head down, to whisper into John’s ear. Greg, and probably Sherlock as well, could not read Mycroft’s now-hidden lips, but they both heard what he said. “If you don’t have an answer for me, well, I will just have to guess, won’t I?”

“I… I’m sorry…”

But Mycroft was having none of that. The hand on John’s arm fell down gracefully to the top of his trousers, where it fingered the rim. 

John’s eyes widened.

“It’s all right, I have you.” The arm around John’s back finally tightened, to provide support. The hand at his crotch disappeared into the clothes.

For a second or two, John breathed quickly, excited, uncertain. Then, his knuckles tightened, and his eyelids fluttered. “Ah…”

Mycroft hugged John to himself. His voice was low. “Hug me, John.”

The words were powerful. John held Mycroft. But he also buried his face into Mycroft’s chest. 

“Thank you.” His arm began to move up and down. 

There was the smallest of whimpers. John exhaled shakily. 

“Is this nice?”

“Uh… Uh huh...”

“Our other time was nice, also,” Mycroft remarked softly. “Yet, this is different, isn’t it…” His arm proceeded at a more gentle pace, making John shudder with warmth. “This way, I am able to talk to you.”

“And you do enjoy talking so much,” Sherlock cut in sarcastically, though breathlessly.

Greg instantly stared at Sherlock in disbelief. 

Upon receiving that stare, Sherlock seemed to realise that he was also in disbelief of himself. He had interrupted something tantalisingly beautiful to say something meaningless. Though, Greg wasn’t sure that it was meaningless.

John stole a peek at Sherlock. The expression that was on his face baffled Greg. It appeared that John was surprised that Sherlock was still there.

“Sherlock, brother dear.” Mycroft sighed. “Don’t you enjoy this, too?”

John hid himself again. He couldn’t help but make more noises, noises that thrilled Greg more deeply than they should have.

Instinctively, Mycroft reassured John once more with another kiss on his head. “It feels good, doesn’t it, John? Being pleased, in front of Sherlock, knowing what it’s doing to him?”

Greg could feel Sherlock shaking next to him. 

John trembled as well. “Sherlock...”

“Think of him,” Mycroft went on. “He’s the one you want, isn’t he? To watch him writhe, to hear him moan with pleasure?” As he spoke the words, Mycroft’s strokes quickened and steadily grew stronger.

“Yes…” John was fast losing strength, and crumpling within Mycroft’s hold. 

“He needs you. You make it so good for him, John.”

“Sherlock, please…”

“He loves you. He loves watching you like this.”

“Please…”

“Yes, that’s it… You can take all that you want, if you like it…”

“Please… Mycroft…”

Mycroft hesitated for the most split of seconds. “No, not me. You mean Sherlock!”

John broke out into distressed weeping. He hugged Mycroft with all his might.

The thick confidence that had wrapped itself around Greg’s husband dissolved into air like a magic trick. Doubt entered Mycroft’s words, and he slowed down to ask, “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” John struggled to rasp the words.

Alarmed, Mycroft stopped what he was doing. 

John winced with even greater distress. “Please, please, don’t...” He wasn’t even close to able to finish the assertive sentence.

“You still would like more?” Yet Mycroft was afraid to resume his activity. “John, what is the matter?”

John shook his head into Mycroft’s shirt. “I’m sorry, I can’t forget about you!”

Fear redoubled itself on Mycroft’s features. “Wouldn’t you rather be thinking of Sherlock?”

“I… I…. I can’t…” But it was no good. John sobbed in misery, “I don’t belong here!”

Something shattered painfully inside Greg.

“John?” Sherlock whispered, heartbroken.

Mycroft was shocked. “Of… Of course you belong here.”

“You three love each other so much… I shouldn’t be here…”

“Don’t be silly. All three of us want you here.” 

“I’m… I’m not part of this, not really… but, I wanted so badly to be!” John cried furiously. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. Sherlock…!”

“No, you do belong here,” Mycroft said resolutely. Finally, he found the strength to keep going. He stroked John with boundless care and affection.

The rush of need and desire that came over John was intense. John moaned so sadly and desperately that Greg had to resist a very inappropriate urge to touch himself. “Please,” John begged.

“We’re all three here,” Mycroft whispered. “Sherlock. And Greg. And me. You’re part of what we have, John. Though we do have a head start over you, do not worry. We have all the time in the world to get to know you.”

The moans grew even more desperate. In them, Greg could hear John’s restless need to be with them, yet also a long-standing fear that he would forever be too late. “Please, please…”

When Mycroft stopped what he was doing a second time, Greg surged forward, prepared to intervene, but he needn’t have bothered. All Mycroft did was drop to the floor. He had to force himself out of John’s hold first, but once he did, he moved with the swiftness of a demon. John’s trousers and undergarments were yanked down. Mycroft held John’s hips with a grip of iron, either to keep him from leaving or from collapsing, and sucked on him.

John cried out. “Sherlock! Sherlock, please, be watching,” he pleaded, because he didn’t have it in him to face them see if that was the case. All the while, Mycroft was digging the heel of his foot against his own crotch, so that he could better focus on giving John what he needed.

Greg’s throat was completely dry. The edges of his vision were black, too. So, he didn’t see it, but he did feel it, when Sherlock put his hand on Greg’s, clutching it. 

“Greg, too,” Sherlock murmured.

John was weeping a storm. 

“Greg,” Sherlock repeated, encouraging John.

John mouthed the word, with eyes shut closed. Something strange and extraordinary swelled in Greg’s soul. 

“That’s it. Greg.”

“Greg,” John copied hesitantly.

“Good,” Sherlock said quietly.

John came. His shame, during and afterward, prevented him from removing himself from Mycroft. Greg’s patient husband helped John through it, keeping him from falling. Once John was finished, Mycroft stood to secure John in a new embrace. John was too weak to return this one, but Mycroft didn’t care. He was looking straight at Sherlock, who, for some reason, was still not leaving Greg’s side.

“Brother, I beg of you, don’t be jealous,” Mycroft said. “I admit, I shouldn’t have asked John to forget me or Greg entirely. That was not fair to John. Yet you must know that it is you whom he longs for, not me.” 

“No, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered. “I’m not jealous of you.” He looked away. “No, that’s wrong. You are right, I am jealous of you. How could I not be? But that’s not at all what I can’t tell you.”

“What… do you mean by that?” Mycroft stood where he was, not understanding.

“I can’t tell you…” Sherlock braced himself. “… that the truth is…” He sighed. “… that… I’m jealous… of John.”

Surprised beyond measure, John was too busy recovering himself to respond.

With that admission, it pained Sherlock to look at John. He looked down instead. “I’m sorry.”

“Jealous… of John?” Mycroft asked with genuine confusion.

“Me?” John had to gasp out the question, but he was too taken aback not to try.

“Oh!” Greg exclaimed. “I get it! That makes sense!”

Three gazes fell squarely onto Greg’s shoulders.

Greg hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh… Ah ha?”

“You know what is bothering Sherlock?” Mycroft asked him.

The possibility frightened Sherlock. “No, he doesn’t,” he insisted, hoping against hope that Greg was bluffing. 

Greg wasn’t bluffing.

The thing Sherlock was thinking of was actually something Greg had himself thought of before. Privately, but surely. It was the one thing that John had which Sherlock could never want for himself. Or so Greg had supposed. Except, apparently, Sherlock did want it? At least, he could understand why Sherlock was feeling jealous of John if he assumed so. And it made sense that Sherlock would be very conflicted over that jealousy, given how important John was to him. If Greg was correct, Sherlock must be inundated with guilt.

“His… attractiveness, you said?” Greg asked Sherlock, slowly and carefully, testing his unspeakable theory. “Intimateness?”

Sherlock remembered. Terrified, he let go of Greg and flinched away.

Greg kept hold of him.

\--

“Come on,” Greg encouraged Sherlock. “Help me get John to bed. They must be exhausted.”

Sherlock blinked. “They?”

Greg stood up. He eased John from Mycroft, so that he could pick John up. “Mycroft, honey,” Greg said. “Thank you for taking care of John. You can take it easy now.”

Mycroft hesitated. He had tried so hard to make things right. He’d meant to handle everything himself. Even now, he feared that if Greg took command, John might continue to look upon Greg as his superior. However, it had taken Mycroft a great deal of energy to get this far. It was more than he could sustain. Greg was right. He was exhausted.

“Sherlock, get the door for me.” Greg walked away.

Sherlock, still sitting with legs crossed, glanced at Mycroft with apprehension.

Mycroft met the look. Whatever it was that was bothering Sherlock, Greg had figured it out. That was a relief to know, but it was also odd. Greg seemed convinced that it was a simple problem, while Mycroft still couldn’t figure it out. 

Sherlock rose. His posture exuded humility, for once. It wasn’t enough to distract Mycroft from marking how aroused his brother was. “Do you…” Sherlock studied Mycroft briefly. “… need help?”

Mycroft smiled a little. “No.” His brother’s subtle kindness touched Mycroft’s heart. A pittance of energy returned to him.

Grimacing, Sherlock nodded. Then, he ran after Greg. 

It was nice to know where Sherlock was going, Mycroft thought. Regardless of whatever it was Greg had in mind, Mycroft trusted him completely with Sherlock and John. If he wanted to, he could stay here and lounge, like the sloth that Sherlock sometimes semi-fondly labelled him as, and let Greg look after the two younger ones.

Mycroft decided that he would rather be a sloth in good company. He followed. 

This house wasn’t particularly grand, so their bedroom wasn’t particularly far. That wasn’t to say it wasn’t a nice house. Though unfamiliar and technically not theirs, the house was well furnished, and boasted enough rooms to satisfy the needs of a family. Only one bedroom was currently in use.

Mycroft found the other three in that bedroom. Greg was changing John on the bed, dressing him properly for lying down. 

Sherlock wasn’t bothering with any of that. “John.” He was drawn to John like a magnet, and stayed beside him like a worried nurse. “I didn’t know you felt that way… but I should have known. Don’t waste time thinking that you don’t belong here. You belong here.” He held John’s face. “I need you.”

John responded well to Sherlock’s attention, especially when Sherlock kissed him, longingly and sweetly.

Not wishing to interrupt, Mycroft sat on an armchair off to the side, and watched lazily. He noticed Greg notice him. He encouraged Greg with a languid nod.

That made Greg happy, and spurred him on.

“And not just me,” Sherlock said. “You’re part of what we are, John. You have all of us. There’s nothing between us and you.”

John’s eyes sparkled with joy and relief. 

Greg added, “You do, too, Sherlock.”

A sour mood descended onto Sherlock. “What are you talking about?”

“You can be yourself with us,” Greg said, effecting brightness and acceptance.

Sherlock evidently didn’t agree. “Aren’t there…” It was hard for him to think of adequate words to say to Greg, while in front of John. “… limits? But not for you, John,” he said quickly. 

The bed shifted as Greg got onto it. “Just limits for you, then?”

Sherlock retorted, “Yes.” 

Greg held up his hands. “All right. I won’t make you say it. But, hey, look. There are four of us. Things can get… complicated. We’re bound to run into hiccups, like this, where you want something that’s sort of hard to explain and which you also think won’t be acceptable, even if it is. If you ever do feel like sharing, then, we can work through it, I’m sure of it. All things considered, it’ll probably take a long time before the four of us have the other three figured out…” He scratched his head. “Uh, does that make sense? How many relationships do we have altogether, anyway, between the four of us? It’s more than four, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s answer was spontaneous. “Six. Connect four points. It’s a square, with two diagonal lines. Six lines total.” 

“Oh.” Greg pictured it in his head. “So, like a kite?”

Sherlock frowned.

Greg chuckled. “Ha. Right-o. Six relationships. So, things will be very complicated sometimes, and if you’re having complicated feelings because of it, then that’s no surprise and nothing to feel bad about. Still, if you’re not comfortable saying it, you don’t have to.”

Ambivalence clouded Sherlock’s gratitude. “Thank you...”

“Hey, wait, no, that doesn’t mean I’m done. First, let me tell you something. You know how important John is to me?”

When Sherlock actually began to smile at that, Mycroft noted to himself that Greg was always surprising him with his cleverness. “Yes?”

“Yeah, John and I practically grew up together!” Greg fell backwards and hugged John with a shake to stress this point. “He’s like the brother I never had.”

John was radiantly happy, and also glowed with pride.

Sherlock was pleased, too, though his guard remained up. Mycroft wondered with curiosity where this was going.

Greg clapped John on the sternum. “John’s always been this adorable, by the way. And the nicest kid in the yard. Always let me have the first turn with the toys.”

Mycroft enjoyed imagining such a scenario. He fancied picturing them as children, playing together.

John simpered. “Ah, well…” He swallowed. “I remember, you, um, looked after me, then, too.”

“Of course! I sure did. That’s what a big brother does, after all.”

That was a charming sentiment. It amused Mycroft. 

Yet, for whatever reason, it failed to sit right with Sherlock.

“Hey, John. I want you to know.” Greg clapped John again. “Watching Mycroft have fun with you… It’s fun.”

“Oh. Yes? Um…”

“As in, a whole lot of fun. It was…” Greg laughed a bit nervously. “Good! Ha.”

It seemed that John understood him. “I’m… glad…” Mycroft realised then that, if Greg had indeed got something out of Mycroft and John’s little performance, John must be feeling the evidence of it right now.

“Ah, and… Feel free to say no to this.” Greg propped himself on an elbow, to look into John’s face with a bashful grin. “But, can I, you know…” He shrugged. “… let off some steam, with you?”

“No!” Sherlock paled. “You can’t do that!” He had spoken reflexively, before thinking. He immediately was ashamed of what he had said. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“I know, you’re right, Sherlock. John’s totally drained.” Greg’s answer came too readily, and wasn’t altogether convincing. “I’m not asking for much, John. I just want to… grind, against you? A little? But, hey.” He then patted John repeatedly. “You can say no if that’s not okay.”

John was entirely unsure of what to say. He was frozen.

Sherlock was frozen, too, though he watched Greg and John with morbid fascination.

Mycroft sat straighter. 

“Would that not be okay?” Greg asked, in a generous tone that allowed for any answer.

“No, um, it’s... okay…”

“Nothing wrong with that, then?”

“No, that’s… okay… but…” John faltered. “Why?”

“It’s like what Sherlock said,” Greg murmured kindly. “There shouldn’t be anything between us. I may be thinking of Mycroft, but…” Greg did his best to beam for John. “I suppose, I want you to see that there’s nothing I wouldn’t share with you.”

“Oh… Then, um…” John wiped at his eye. “Okay, that’s, um… fine.”

Cautiously optimistic, Greg pulled John a bit closer, to secure John’s hip in between his legs. Still holding John, he moved once against John. He didn’t manage to bite back his groan, though he tried.

On its own, John’s hand found a place on Greg’s arm. 

“You’re… good, John,” Greg said, almost apologetically. He moved against John some more. Apparently, now that he was going at it for real, Greg’s confidence in his plan was wavering. He almost stopped. “Maybe this was… a bad idea…”

Mycroft knew this problem all too well. It was one thing to plan. It was quite another to do.

And yet, somehow, John was happy. “No really,” he said eagerly. “It’s okay.”

What? Mycroft couldn’t understand him. John should be disgusted, not happy. Didn’t Greg just say that they were like brothers, after all? It was one thing for Mycroft and John to be intimate, or Sherlock and Greg, too, but John and Greg? That was more than a trifle awkward. They were essentially brothers. They couldn’t share this much. They shouldn’t be okay with it.

“John, you’re… really good…” Greg closed his eyes. “Damn me,” he breathed.

“Um, Greg,” John said. “I think this is okay.” He cleared his throat. “You, um, you said you were thinking of Mycroft?”

“Yeah…”

“He’s really nice.”

Greg half-laughed. “He’s nice, all right…” He exhaled shakily. “Mycroft…”

“What are you, um, thinking about, exactly?”

Greg huffed. “That’s an easy one... While you and Sherlock were riding the horses earlier. Mycroft and I were in some flowers… just lying there, for a while… I was thinking that… ah, damn…” Needing more, Greg rubbed himself more heavily against John. “He looked good there…”

Mycroft blushed sharply. Energy was coming back to him quickly now, but not the useful kind of energy.

“I love him so much,” Greg panted. “John, thanks for letting me… do this… I swear. I have a good reason…” He grimaced at his excuse. “No, no, never mind… Even if I didn’t have a good reason...”

“Um, you can, um,” John murmured. “You can do more, if you want to.”

Greg didn’t have it in him to argue. “God, Mycroft,” he moaned. “You’re so beautiful. God damn it...” He struggled to keep control of himself. “I want you so badly.”

“My dear Greg,” Mycroft whispered.

“Mycroft…” The grinding wasn’t enough anymore. Greg still hugged John with one hand, while he relieved himself inside his clothes with the other. “Please...”

Mycroft’s own twitching hands had to lock themselves together. He didn’t dare interrupt this. 

“Greg, um…” John gave Greg a friendly shake. “You can… I don’t mind…”

“Really…?”

“Mycroft’s… watching. I think he, um... wants you to…”

Unable to hold back any longer, Greg let out a final groan, and let himself go against John. John was too mesmerised by Greg’s pleasure, and his trust in John, to think of looking away in shame. 

Mycroft had to cross his legs and bite his lip. He kept tempered the excitement that was pooling in his abdomen. For this moment, he only wanted to focus on how beautiful a picture Greg and John made. They were a gorgeous pair, and so closely attached to each other.

After a great deal of catching his breath, Greg palmed his own face. “That,” he managed, “oh, that, was… the stupidest thing I’ve ever done...” He seemed to not know if he should still be near John. “John, uh, was that…?”

But John was laughing. It was soft at first, until it became hard and uncontrollable. “I really am part of this, aren’t I?” His laughter was delightful and bright. All John’s gratitude shone through it. “Is this all real, Greg?”

It made Mycroft feel an odd pride, knowing that he had someone as kind and open-minded as John in his family.

Extreme relief overcame Greg’s tenseness. He laughed adorably, too. “Yeah.”

“Now, I suppose I don’t have to look away,” John kept laughing, “when you’re shirtless, huh?”

Greg’s smile froze. “What?”

Not noticing the brief change in Greg’s mood, John wiped the tears of joy from his eyes. “I always thought you wouldn’t like that kind of attention from me. How silly I was!”

“… Really?” Greg recovered, as a hearty realisation set in. “Yeah…. Yeah. Absolutely!” 

Mycroft could sympathise. He too, had not had an inkling that John’s feelings for Greg stretched so far. If he had only been looking, maybe he could have observed that John considered Greg to be his big brother, because Greg treated him as his younger. It might have made sense, then, that John would feel that he could not enjoy Greg’s presence without guilt or shame. That weight had finally been lifted, though, and John was visibly lighter for it.

“You aren’t angry?” Sherlock quietly asked John.

Indignant, Greg flushed with emotion. “Hey! Of course he’s not angry!”

John shook his head in agreement. “No,” he said, happily, still finishing the last of his impulsive giggling. “Definitely not angry.”

“And, Sherlock.” Mycroft rose. “Neither am I.”

Sherlock, once more, turned into a frightened block of stone.

At last, Mycroft had deduced what was bothering Sherlock. The only question remaining was, what would he do about it?

\--

Greg had always thought that Sherlock liked Mycroft a lot. Something like this had crossed his mind before, too. Given how much those two cared about one another, it had been a tempting thing to consider. 

It had also been an obvious thing to consider, too, at the start of their marriage. All three were essentially married to each other, so, he had asked himself, would Mycroft and Sherlock only be taking turns with him? Or…? 

Yeah, Greg had walked in on Mycroft satisfying himself while resting on Sherlock that one time. That had been one of the best moments of Greg’s life, by the way. But that was it. Mycroft never did anything else to Sherlock, or vice versa. Always, there was an invisible barrier between Mycroft and his younger sibling. It had seemed reasonable to Greg, too. Clearly, Mycroft and Sherlock didn’t want to do anything weird with one another. Of course they didn’t. They were siblings. An older, protective sibling didn’t do that sort of thing with his younger, trusting sibling.

So, until now, there had been an unwritten rule, which all involved knew: Mycroft and Sherlock shared husbands, and nothing more. 

But, whose rule was it?

Mycroft came nearer, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sherlock…”

Rather than confront the situation, Sherlock crossed his arms and avoided Mycroft’s gaze. “What?”

“I know what you’re thinking, Sherlock, but I am still here. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It means… something,” Sherlock mumbled.

“John and Gregory—” Mycroft paused. “John and Greg, that is.” Greg didn’t know what that change was all about, but it didn’t concern him too much right now. “They are very close. They remind me of us, at times.”

Sherlock’s retort was a sad one. “But, they’re not… real brothers…”

“And yet, isn’t it true that their feelings are the same as those of brothers? As yours and mine?” Mycroft looked up thoughtfully for a space of time. “I seem to recall that you once feared that I wouldn’t accept you. However, I did accept you, is that not so? And you accepted me.”

“That was different from this!” Sherlock finally faced Mycroft again. His features were full of frustration and sorrow. “Yes, I liked seeing you happy for once! Only Greg could make you that happy, and yes, I wanted to see that! But that was different!”

Mycroft leaned over to Sherlock, to rub his brother’s shoulder. “Brother…”

Sherlock recoiled. 

Mycroft was stricken by it.

“Damn it,” Sherlock swore. He covered his face. “Why do Greg and John get to be closer to you than I can be?” Sherlock’s voice became thick with restrained tears. “You’re in love with Greg, so, I can at least allow that, but not John, so why… why can you do things with John that you can’t do with me?” Sherlock sobbed. “Please, forgive me, John, don’t listen to me, I don’t mean it…”

“Sherlock.” An otherworldly fraternal devotion possessed Mycroft. He held Sherlock in his arms, and comforted him. “Sh, it’s all right.”

“I’m sorry… Mycroft, don’t hate me.” Sherlock’s words were weak with despair. “Please.”

Something in Mycroft broke before Greg’s eyes. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrists, and pinned them to the bed, so that each was held down beside Sherlock’s head. “No, don’t say that, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered softly.

Sherlock was too shocked to respond.

Mycroft’s reassuring smile was heartbreakingly gentle. “I could never hate you.”

“But…”

“There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for you.” Mycroft kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “What would you like from me, brother mine? What have I given John that I haven’t given you?”

“No, please...” Sherlock couldn’t stop crying. “I… I’m so sorry… I’m just being stupid, and jealous, and an idiot…”

“Sh. It’s all right.”

“All my life, you’ve looked after me… and all I’ve done is cause you trouble…”

Mycroft kissed Sherlock again. “John is lovely, isn’t he?”

Sherlock was startled.

“Do you remember? The way he moaned, when I touched him.” Mycroft’s fingers tenderly caressed the pale wrists they held. “He was beautiful like that… wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock shuddered, and flushed with deep embarrassment. “Yes… but…”

“Do you want him right now? Are you thinking of him?” 

Guilt compelled Sherlock to sob again. “… Y… Yes...”

Mycroft slowly angled one leg to rest in between Sherlock’s. “How do you want him?”

Sherlock bit his lip, trying not to make any more unforgivable noises.

Mycroft’s leg began to move up and down.

A poorly restrained whimper filled the room. “Yes,” Sherlock gasped raggedly.

“How do you want him?” Mycroft asked again. “Do you… want to imagine that you were bound for him? 

It was too much. Sherlock’s tears flowed freely down his face. “Mycroft...”

“Sherlock. It’s all right. I still love you as I always have.”

Still, Sherlock couldn’t stop crying.

Mycroft couldn’t give up. “Imagine it. John wouldn’t even have to bind you. Greg and I could do that for him. He’d be frightened to touch you, at first…” There was a modest lapse in the words. It was evidence of Mycroft summoning his courage. “Greg would satisfy you, instead. But not enough, just until you needed John more than air. You would be so beautiful, in John’s eyes… and John, he wouldn’t stay away from you then.”

“John...”

“You want those things, Sherlock?” John asked nervously.

Greg’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe John had said something. John never said anything. Greg himself wouldn’t have said anything, not while Mycroft and Sherlock were humbling him so thoroughly by baring their hearts to one another like this.

John crawled over to Sherlock. He took Sherlock’s hands in his own, keeping them transfixed to the sheets. Mycroft, surprised, retreated to give him the room he needed.

Red with tears, Sherlock stared at John in wonder.

“Um, see? I’m okay with this,” John said. Only his voice revealed how timid and nervous he still was.

Mycroft moved down, to sit on Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock tried to look down. He demanded, “Mycroft…? You don’t have to…”

John resolutely held Sherlock’s face, shared a reassuring look, and kissed him.

Sherlock, amazed and infatuated, melted into the kiss. His hands pulled against John’s grip, as if to prove to himself that John was there. 

Mycroft opened Sherlock’s trousers, but not his underclothes. Uncertainty was mounting too steeply. He tentatively touched Sherlock’s hip, and hesitated.

Greg came forward. He got behind Mycroft, and hugged him. “Hey, don’t worry, you got this,” he said.

Mycroft let out the breath of air he was holding in. Double-checking, he looked over his shoulder at Greg. “… Indeed?”

Greg smiled. “Yeah. You really are a great brother.”

Mycroft warmed hotly at Greg’s approval.

“John, d-don’t misunderstand,” Sherlock murmured. “You and Mycroft, together… I don’t want that to stop, please, not because of me, please, I—ah, yes,” he gasped.

Mycroft’s grip on Sherlock’s hips was strong and secure, while he gave Sherlock what he thought Sherlock wanted. It filled Greg with a titillating heat to see.

Sherlock moaned brokenly. “John,” he cried, “what is…?”

John took the risk of looking behind himself. “Good lord,” he breathed. 

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide.

Elation was obvious in Sherlock’s features, but there was more. Was he astonished? Greg wondered. Was he sad? There were so many emotions in Sherlock’s wild expression that Greg couldn’t pick them apart. He tried to commit what he saw to memory as well as he could, so that he could describe it to Mycroft later. 

Mycroft humped the air a little, needfully. It was only a little, but Greg saw it. It occurred to Greg then that Mycroft had done nothing but give this entire evening. Greg felt compelled to remedy that imbalance.

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” Greg whispered to his husband. “Here, let me give you something you’ll like, okay…?” He reached into Mycroft’s clothes and stroked the arousal he found hidden there.

Mycroft shuddered violently. For a moment, Greg wasn’t sure if maybe he had just done something terribly wrong. Yet Mycroft moved into Greg’s strokes, like he needed Greg more than anything. A buzz of heat rushed through Greg to feel Mycroft respond so helplessly to him.

John kissed Sherlock again, more ardently than before. Like Mycroft, he was trying to show Sherlock that he accepted him.  


Sherlock whined, passionately, and continued to cry, but Greg thought that he was finally believing that everything would be fine. He seemed almost at peace, free to be himself and let the people he loved take care of him. It was mind-numbingly sweet how Sherlock returned John’s kiss.

Greg felt at peace, too. Embracing Mycroft. Watching Sherlock and John kiss. And all the rest of it. Greg was confident that he would never need anything more than this, to be this close to the three greatest people he’d ever known. 

The room was quiet for a long time, relatively speaking. Somehow, it was nice.

\--

Mycroft was the first to wake, that morning. That wasn’t unusual. It was his habit to rise early. Such a habit afforded him many advantages. For example, he had the opportunity to observe the three men closest to him, secure and sound asleep. 

Mycroft usually found Greg to be holding him, which he was indeed doing now. Sherlock and John were less predictable. Sometimes Sherlock was folded against John and hugging him. More often, Sherlock was in a random position, while John had his head against Sherlock’s chest. Today, however, was a change. It was John who was holding Sherlock. Their height difference made it physically impossible for John to engulf Sherlock the same way that Sherlock overtook John in such circumstances, but that wasn’t deterring John in the least.

Reluctantly leaving Greg and the other two, Mycroft exited the bedroom. His first move was instinctual. He went to the kitchen to find the hot water and, remembering only then that they were more or less on their own and without servants out here in the wilderness, started a kettle himself. Letting it be, he exited to the living room, took a seat, and thought.

Sherlock was his little brother. For as long as Sherlock had been alive, Mycroft had been there to take care of him. Mycroft knew he was more devoted than most siblings, but Sherlock was important to him. Sherlock was brilliant, but a recluse and a loner, and so Mycroft had been all that Sherlock had, for a long time. Even as a toddler, Sherlock preferred solitude, the company of animals, or Mycroft’s company to the presence of other people. Maybe Sherlock had forgotten about all that happened then, due to being so young at the time.

Mycroft, who was several years older than his brother, hadn’t forgotten. He’d always had a strong memory, which he occasionally allowed himself to reason was the universe’s compensation for his lack of ambition and energy. Mycroft could still recall carrying his baby brother, and changing him when their parents asked him to. He’d had the unique chance of watching someone like himself grow up, and become a person. Somehow, it had all led to Mycroft promising his life to Sherlock, even if it meant never marrying.

The shrillness of a hot kettle resounded.

A streak of laziness delayed Mycroft from answering the call. Instead, he maintained his train of thought. It had delighted Mycroft that Greg had taken a shine to Sherlock. Greg had very much come out of nowhere, hadn’t he? He had thrown off all Mycroft’s plans. John, too, was a shock to Mycroft’s scheme. Before their marriage, Mycroft couldn’t have predicted that both he and Sherlock would find romantic partners. But Greg and John were impossibly perfect. They were beautiful, thoughtful, and kind. They were full of feeling. It was addictively intriguing to merely study them.

Sherlock used to say that he and Mycroft were the only real people on the face of the earth. Mycroft hadn’t disagreed, then. Sherlock never said things like that anymore.

The kettle’s song was cut off.

Surprised, Mycroft listened for footsteps. He couldn’t hear any. From that, though, he deduced who was in the kitchen.

The deduction was pointless. A mere minute or two later, Sherlock came in, with a plated cup in his hands. He offered it to his big brother.

Mycroft accepted the gift. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said. He left the room.

Mycroft stopped to consider the cup and its contents. It was coffee. The drink had been prepared exactly the way that Mycroft liked it.

Sherlock returned, with his violin and bow. He passed by Mycroft, stood by a closed window, and played a slow, nameless melody.

Lazily, Mycroft watched him play and had his coffee. Everything was all right, then, Mycroft decided. Sherlock was happy, John was happy, Greg was happy. He was happy, too. That was all that mattered.

“I hope you have a not-awful time at that party today,” Sherlock said off-handedly.

“Hm? Oh, yes.” Mycroft hadn’t considered that the visit to the law offices was today. It was such a distant and unimportant thing. Mycroft hardly gave it a second thought. “Thank you. I’m sure it will be dreadfully boring, so I’m glad you needn’t attend as well. Sadly, I have reason to doubt that there will be much in the way of dancing, or good music.”

“Humph, the one good thing about parties,” Sherlock remarked self-righteously.

Mycroft affectionately allowed that, and then returned to his coffee. It was humbling, to know that he had done so much with all three of them. It was difficult to admit, even in the sanctity of his own mind, how much he had enjoyed giving Sherlock what he needed. It was made easier when he framed it as a service done for Sherlock, much in the same way as he had initially passed off pleasing John as yet another favour for Sherlock’s benefit. But such a perspective did not do justice to Mycroft’s bewildering, unutterable feelings of not-exactly-friendship for them. 

He wasn’t hopelessly and achingly attracted to them in the way he was attracted to Greg—merely thinking about Sherlock and John didn’t give him the urge to humiliate himself, for example—but that tiny detail seemed to be steadily losing its relevance.

He wondered, did Greg think about these sorts of things, too?

He smiled. Thank goodness for Greg. This was all thanks to him. Greg was more than just an exceptionally handsome and arousing nobleman, now. He was the brave man whose spirit had given Mycroft the strength to keep trying. Greg was Mycroft’s partner in crime, his fellow steward over the two younger souls. It astounded Mycroft how much he depended on him. Mycroft owed Greg everything. He wished that Greg were here, with him, right now. He wanted to see his warm grin, to smell his strong scent, and to know that Greg was his.

“Hey, that’s too slow, Sherlock!” The boom of Greg’s voice contrasted with the seriousness of the song. The voice was too cheerful and energetic. 

Mycroft craned his neck to look at Greg, who had brought with him all the warmth that existed in the world into this one room. Greg was larger than life, Mycroft reflected.

Sherlock frowned, and paused his playing. “I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“Not a problem at all! Waking up to your violin? There’s no better way for a fellow to come back to life, in my opinion.”

Blushing, Sherlock fumbled with his bow. “You said, you want it faster?”

“Yeah! Though, I suppose it’s tough to make it upbeat when you’re going solo,” Greg admitted. “Uh, but hey! I’ve got an idea. Hold on, one second!” Greg spun around and went back the way he had come. When Greg returned, John was with him, holding a clarinet.

John seemed glad, but he was saying, “Are you sure…?”

“Totally. We need you, John.” Greg clapped him on the back. “Come on, pretty please? For me?”

John glowed a bit at Greg’s request. He nodded, took his place near Sherlock, and started to play. He immediately played quick high and low notes.

Sherlock listened, and then readied himself once more. He played. The bow arm swung about as he caught up with John’s tempo. It was a thrilling beat, which filled Mycroft with its joy and vitality.

Greg’s head rocked a little from side to side with the music. “Yeah, that’s more like it.”

Mycroft laughed. At what, he didn’t know, but he didn’t care. He put his coffee down. “You’re quite skilled,” he complimented John.

John thanked him with an embarrassed nod.

“And I think they go well together,” Greg added, enthusiastically. He was enjoying the music a great deal. His shoulders began to shake along with the sound, and his hips weren’t far behind. Soon enough, he was excitedly offering a hand to Mycroft.

Mycroft took Greg’s hand. Right now, he felt like being silly.

Greg didn’t hesitate to pull Mycroft up to join him. Together, the two swung around the room, kicking their feet and giggling at themselves and how much they loved each other, while Sherlock and John shyly smiled at one another. 

“By the way, we never got around to showing them what we had talked about before, did we?” Greg slyly passed along to Mycroft, with a wink. “I suppose we just had so much else to do last night. How about some other time, then? When they’re ready for it?”

Mycroft winked back. “It’s a date.” He was already looking forward to it.

Probably, Greg had been right. 

It would take some time before they really worked out the highly complex arrangement of relationships that had been created between the four of them. Even a simple relationship between two people required work, after all. With four people, there were so many feelings to be aware of. Mycroft knew that there was still so much that remained to be learned, to be discovered, and most of all, to be accepted. Really, relative to the timespan of the universe’s existence, they had all just met each other. It was a miracle that they were already so fond of one another, that they could share splendid moments like this one.

It would take patience, and courage, for them to get to know one another even better and fall even more in love. It would take a very long time. 

And they were fine with that. 

End.


End file.
